Garden Folly

by Candice Hern

  There was something terribly erotic about the al­most pitch darkness of the storeroom. He was aware more than ever of the shape of her, of every curve, of her breasts crushed against his chest. They both seemed affected by the darkness. Their bodies pressed closer together. Hands reaching, exploring, caressing. Their kiss became more lush and urgent.

  But Catherine finally pulled away. "Why will you not leave me alone?" she said in a breathless whisper. "Let me go. I never want to see you again. I hate you."

  Stephen laughed. "No, you don't," he said and kissed her again. He felt her instant response, but it was soon war­ring with resistance. Obviously the woman knows not what she wants, he thought. Is that what his mother meant? Is that what he must teach Catherine, to know what she wanted? And to accept it?

  He kissed her deeply, persuading her with his lips and tongue and hands.

  But she pushed him roughly away, so hard that he stumbled in the dark against an old lawn roller.

  "How can I convince you," she pleaded, "to leave me alone?"

  "Not by kissing me like that. You enjoyed it as much as I did."

  He heard the sharp intake of her breath. "But that is not the point," she said, her voice still plaintive and tremulous. "You know what I am trying to do here at Chissingworth. And you know that I mean to be suc­cessful. Why are you making it so difficult for me?"

  "Because there are more important things in life than a fortune."

  "Not for me, there aren't." He sensed her backing away, heard her find the door. "You cannot under­stand, Stephen. You were not brought up as I was. You cannot imagine the humiliation of someone of my class forced to live off the broth of a few onions for the whole of a week because there was no money for food. But I refuse to live like that again, not when I have this one opportunity to change things." She paused, and he heard the sound of her ragged breath­ing. "I will not allow you or anyone else to stand in my way," she said. "I will do what I have to do."

  She walked out the door and into the sunlight. He noticed a glint of moisture on her cheeks and realized how hard she was struggling.

  "Once and for all," she said, "I am asking you to leave me alone. Do you understand? I never want to see you again. Never." She turned on her heel and stomped away, brushing at her cheeks and straighten­ing her bonnet.

  Stephen sagged against the temple wall and won­dered why he was wasting his time. She was never going to change her mind. She was never going to give up her dreams of a fortune. Regardless of her own desires, her own passions, she was not to be dis­suaded.

  His mother was wrong. There was nothing he could teach her. She was a hard-headed, hard-hearted woman. And he wondered why he was wasting his time.

  But he knew why.

  He had fallen in love with her.

  Chapter 14

  Catherine flattened herself against the trunk of a large oak, hidden in its shade from any nearby guests. She could not face anyone just yet. Especially Lord Strick­land. Her hands trembled, her heart pounded, her face felt flushed, and her lips were no doubt swollen. No, she could not yet face Lord Strickland.

  What was she to do? Good Lord, what was she to do? Stephen would not leave her alone. Despite her protests, she knew he would not leave her alone. Was she to endure his advances for the reminder of her stay? And continue to fight her own reaction to him?

  But the problem was, she was not fighting it. She was giving in. And giving in. And giving in. And falling under his spell. His deep, rich voice as he whispered her name. The musky, earthy green smell of him. The feeling of his arms around her. And the rest of him. Good God, in the dark of that little room she had felt every inch of him pressed against her. And had wanted more.

  No, she was not fighting it. It was too powerful to fight.

  Damnation! She was making a worse fool of herself than Susannah. At least the captain was connected to the duke's family and could legitimately participate in such gatherings as this. No, this was much worse. This was unthinkable.

  Catherine was falling in love with the gardener.

  But, unlike Susannah, she could not acknowledge her feelings. They did not fit in at all with her plans for the earl; in fact, they were wreaking havoc with those plans. If Lord Strickland discovered what she had been doing only five minutes ago, and with whom, he would have nothing more to do with her.

  But Catherine had no intention of spending the rest of her life with a gardener. No matter how much fun he was to be with, or how many interests they shared, or how attractive he was, or how well he kissed. None of those things mattered. She was resolved to marry a fortune, and she would remain steadfast to that goal.

  She placed a hand over her breast and felt the calm­ing of her heartbeat. If only she had a mirror. She sin­cerely hoped there was no evidence of her encounter with Stephen. She adjusted her bonnet and fluffed its ribbon at her neck. She shook out her skirts and straightened her bodice. She tucked a few stray curls up under the bonnet's brim. And then she touched her mouth.

  If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his lips upon hers.

  She ran a finger along her lower lip. Was it swollen? She moistened her lips and prayed they looked normal. She peeked around the tree to see who might be nearby before she stepped out of the copse.

  She kept to the edge of the temple, looking up at it in feigned interest, running her hands along its carved reliefs. Anyone looking her way would see nothing more than a young woman interested in the Tempietto, examining the structure up close. As she moved toward the front, she noticed Aunt Hetty seated on the ledge surrounding the reflecting pool, chatting with Lady Malmsbury. Catherine pretended not to see Sir Bertram Fanshawe beckoning from the other side of the pool. The sight of Aunt Hetty was much more comforting at that moment. She did not care to engage in flirtatious conversation with any gentleman just then. She still felt a bit unsteady, a lit­tle too fluttery around the edges, to deal with any of them.

  Thankfully, Lord Strickland was at the farthest edge of the lawns, near one of the two marble sphinxes fac­ing the reflecting pool. He was in conversation with Lady Alice Landridge. Catherine was more than likely safe from him for the moment. He was too much of a gentleman to monopolize the attention of any one lady. He had sat at Catherine's table during the Venetian breakfast and had strolled with her briefly afterward. He would not wish to make his interest—assuming there was one—too obvious.

  As she made her way to her aunt's side, Catherine watched the earl as he smiled down at Lady Alice. She was such a pretty little thing, with dark hair and big brown eyes. Is it possible he could have a serious interest in her? Her father was the Marquess of Saxe and indecently wealthy. She would be a far better match for him than the insignificant daughter of a dis­graced baronet. And Catherine had seen Lady Alice flirting openly with several of the gentlemen. No doubt she, too, had come to Chissingworth in hopes of finding a husband.

  The two of them began to laugh and Lady Alice briefly touched the earl's sleeve. A pang of apprehen­sion shot through Catherine's already unsteady stom­ach. Good Lord, had she been making too many assumptions about his interest in herself?

  "Sit down, my dear, before you fall down."

  Aunt Hetty patted the ledge beside her, and Catherine sank down upon it. Lady Malmsbury ex­cused herself, saying she wished to have a word with

  Sir Quentin Lacey, and left Catherine gratefully alone with her aunt. She could not keep her eyes from dart­ing toward the marble sphinx.

  "I would not worry about Lady Alice if I were you," her aunt said.

  "Oh dear," Catherine said as she forced her gaze to the clenched hands in her lap. "Am I being so obvi­ous, then?"

  "I doubt anyone else noticed, my dear. But I meant what I said. The earl is merely being polite to Lady Alice. I do not for one moment believe he has a seri­ous interest."

  "Oh, I do so hope you are right, Aunt. You must know I have pinned all my hopes on him."

  "I know you have," Aunt Hetty replied. "And I do not be
lieve you have anything to worry about. You will succeed, my dear. I have no doubt of it."

  "I wish I had your confidence, Aunt Hetty. There is only a week remaining of the party. So little time," she said wistfully. "So little time to secure one's fu­ture."

  "The others are beginning to walk back to the house," her aunt said. "Shall we join them? We can have a nice quiet rest before the evening."

  Catherine walked arm-in-arm with her aunt in silent contemplation. She considered her mission to bring the earl up to scratch, but more often her thoughts strayed to Stephen Archibald and their in­terlude in the storeroom. Why was it so much easier to fall in love with the most inappropriate of men, and yet to feel absolutely nothing for someone as per­fect as Lord Strickland?

  "Catherine?"

  She jerked herself away from her thoughts. "I beg your pardon, Aunt Hetty. Did you say something?"

  Her aunt chuckled softly. "Indeed. I have been chattering away these past several minutes. You have not heard a word, have you, my dear?"

  "I am sorry. I am afraid I have much on my mind, Aunt. I am not very good company, am I? Would you mind terribly if I wandered off in this direction," she said, pointing toward the north, "away from the crowd? I need some time alone to think over a few things."

  "Anything I can help you with, my dear?"

  She squeezed her aunt's arm. "Not just yet. I need to sort out a few things first. Perhaps I will explore the stables. I believe they are in this direction."

  "You go on, my dear. But do not be too long. You will not wish to be too exhausted to enjoy the evening. I believe the duchess has planned some in­formal dancing."

  "Oh, has she? That should be fun."

  "And useful, too, I should think," Aunt Hetty re­marked with a sly grin. "Nothing like a bit of dancing to capture a gentleman's attention."

  "Then, you can be sure I will not miss such an op­portunity," Catherine said, smiling in return. She bid her aunt good-bye and headed off into the woodlands to the north. She made sure that neither the earl nor any other of the gentlemen saw her leave, for one of them would surely insist on accompanying her. And she wanted nothing more than to be alone.

  Catherine wandered through the woodlands until they opened up onto a grassy rise from which she could see the formal gardens below. Just to the left, at the base of the rise, was a wood-and-glass building still under construction. This must be the new conser­vatory she had heard both Stephen and the duchess mention. It looked huge and very fragile, with so much glass. She had never seen anything like it. She wondered what sorts of plants would be kept inside?

  " 'Tis an odd-lookin' sort of place, in't it?"

  Catherine turned at the sound of the familiar brogue and smiled. "MacDougal! What on earth brings you up here?"

  "I be returnin' from the stables, and I just popped round to see how this here thing is progressin'. I come by often just to give it a look. Never saw the like of it. Anyways, I seen ye wanderin' up here all alone. Thought I'd just see how ye was doin' and all."

  Catherine was glad to see him. They had all become so dependent upon MacDougal in Chelsea, but she had seen very little of him here at Chissingworth. She welcomed his company. Wandering about alone had not cleared her head at all.

  "What do ye make o' this thing, then?" he asked, indicating the huge glass house.

  "It is a conservatory," she said, "a sort of green­house. I believe the duke and his head gardener are very interested in exotic and rare plants. They can be nurtured in such a place."

  "Seems a bit flimsy, if ye was to ask me. Looks as though a stiff wind would blow it clean away."

  Catherine laughed. "I doubt that, MacDougal. I sus­pect the duke and his staff know what they are doing. There is likely a great deal of hidden strength in those thin slats of wood."

  "Aye, ye might be right, there," he said. "And is it a good time ye be havin' here, Miss Catherine?"

  "Yes, indeed. I am very much enjoying myself."

  MacDougal looked at her with eyes narrowed in concern, and Catherine turned away. "Ye sure 'bout that, lass? Ye look a wee bit down in the mouth to me."

  "I am just a bit tired, that is all."

  "Weel, then." He paused and took a few steps to­ward the conservatory. "And so, how is young Molly workin' out? Doin' a proper job, is she?"

  "She is wonderful, MacDougal. I do not know what we would have done without her. We are all very grateful to you for arranging it."

  "Aw, 'twas nothin'. Molly says ye been paintin'. Flowers and such from the gardens."

  "Indeed I have. Thanks to you." "Me?"

  Catherine laughed as his dark eyes widened with mock ignorance. "Do not be so coy, MacDougal. I know I owe that wonderful paintbox to you. And what a place to make use of it. Such wonderful flow­ers everywhere."

  MacDougal arched a dark brow. "Aye. Never seen such gardens. Enjoyin' 'em, are ye?"

  "Oh, very much. It's almost like paradise here."

  "Paradise, eh?" He chuckled softly. "The sort o' place to live in forever, then?"

  Catherine's head jerked up and she glared sharply at him. "Have you been speaking with Mr. Archi­bald?" Stephen no doubt mingled regularly with the staff, including the visiting help. She wondered, briefly, if he and MacDougal were in cahoots, some­how.

  "Mr. Archibald?" he asked, a quizzical look on his face.

  "You know very well who I mean, MacDougal. The head gardener."

  "Ah. The gardener, is he?" 'The head gardener."

  "Ah. The head gardener. 'Tis an important position in such a place as this. But, nae," he said, "I dinna know the gentleman. I havena spoken wi' him."

  "Oh." Catherine turned and looked out over the grounds.

  MacDougal came up behind her. "What is it, lass? Are ye fond o' this Mr. Archibald then?"

  "Oh, MacDougal." Catherine buried her face in her hands and gave in to all the wretchedness of her feel­ings. "I think I am in love with him," she murmured.

  "Ah, but that is verra good news, Miss Catherine. Verra good."

  Catherine tore her hands away from her face and glared at him. "No, it is not good. Not good at all. It is horrible."

  "How so, lass? Doesna he care for ye, then?"

  "Oh, I think he does. But that is not the point. He is a gardener, MacDougal."

  "Aye, but the head gardener."

  "A gardener, nonetheless. Oh, heavens, I have been so foolish. Can you imagine a more unsuitable attach­ment?"

  He did not respond, and Catherine suddenly won­dered why she had so easily confided in him. He seemed so much like family that it was easy to talk to him. But there was no call to burden the loyal retainer with her silly woes. "Well," she said with a shrug, "I shall get over it. I have more important matters to at­tend to. I am in hopes of an offer from the Earl of Strickland."

  "Lord above, ye dinna say so?" MacDougal grinned from ear to ear. "My Miss Catherine, a countess?"

  "Too grand for the likes of me?" she said, chuck­ling. "Is that what you are thinking, MacDougal?"

  "Nae, nae," he said, suddenly more sober. "Nothin' is too grand fer my Miss Catherine. I wouldna be sur­prised if ye was to be a duchess one day."

  She laughed at such an absurdity. "Now, that would be too grand, I am sure. We shall have to settle for countess."

  "Whether 'tis plain Miss Catherine or my lady or yer grace, ye'll always be the same sweet and kind young lass to me. And," he added with a smile, "dinna be worryin' about that gardener fella. I promise ye, everythin' will work out fer the best. Do ye ken? Everythin' will work out."

  "I hope you are right." She began to walk down the slope. "I think I will stroll through the gardens on my way back to the house. Are you coming my way, MacDougal?"

  "Nae, lass, I think I'll just plant meself here fer a wee bit and have a cheroot, then be on me way back to the stables."

  Catherine waved good-bye and headed down the slope. As she neared the conservatory, she spied Stephen standing near a huge pile of wooden strips. He wa
s deep in conversation with one of the work­men, pointing this way and that as though giving in­structions. She ducked around to the other side of the structure before he could see her, and then made her way to the nearby Serpentine Walk, where she disap­peared behind its high hedge walls.

  She was determined to avoid him. But she felt somehow more confident, more in control of her emo­tions after her talk with MacDougal. He had a sort of comforting presence, much like Aunt Hetty, and made her feel better about everything. It was strange how she had come to rely on his wisdom and advice, as well as his uncanny ability to save the day. She wondered how a man in his position came to be so worldly wise.

  As she wound her way through the Serpentine Walk, she reflected upon her initial introduction to MacDougal. It had been shortly after her father died, as she discovered the extent of their financial straits. Hetty, her father's widowed sister, had just offered her meager hospitality to the Forsythe girls. Though Catherine loved Hetty, the dear woman was little bet­ter off than they were, having been widowed by a cleric who had given away to the poor nearly every cent he owned, leaving his wife at the mercy of his parishioners. A distant relation had left Hetty a small inheritance, which she had used to lease and furnish the house in Chelsea. With two additional mouths to feed, the money could not last long, but Hetty had in­sisted that their company was more important to her. They would simply struggle along together, she had said.

  But Hetty did not have much of a head for figures or economy, and it had been left to Catherine to en­sure that what little money they had was used wisely. Just as they had settled in Chelsea, MacDougal had shown up a the door, saying he had heard they were in need of a butler. Catherine had explained to him that they could not afford even a footman, much less a butler, but MacDougal had insisted that he was a very sharp fellow who could help their few pennies stretch even further. The fact is, he had thoroughly charmed all three Chelsea women, with his sparkling dark eyes and musical brogue. Before long, he had settled in as their general servant, a sort of jack-of-all-trades. He even cooked for them on many occasions.